Broken Hallelujah
by unviedamour
Summary: Everything is falling apart in the world of Christine Daaé. No longer engaged to Raoul, she must rebuild her life and face her past. After a horrible discovery made upon a secret visit to the Opera Populaire, she must start again a journey that takes her
1. Born to Run

**A/N: Well, here it is, my first phic - _Broken Hallelujah._ This story takes place two years after the performance of _Don Juan Triumphant_. Christine is 19 years old. And for the purposes of my story, the Opera Populaire was repaired after the chandelier crash, and continues to put on performances. Erik in this story is mostly ALW-based.**

**Anyway, I hope you like it:)**

Christine Daaé ran softly down the steps of the enormous Chateau de Chagny. She did not slow down as she hit the cobblestone walkway, her bare feet uncomfortably twisting over the uneven rocks. Her desperate run contrasted oddly with the lazy glow of the streetlamps.

She did not stop until she had run a few blocks down the street, safely out of sight of anyone who might be watching from the windows of the place she had so quickly fled. Pausing a moment to catch her breath, she took some shoes out of one of the bags she carried with her, and put them on. She had not dared to wear them when leaving the house for fear that she might be heard. The de Chagnys had not treated her badly, yet it was crucial that her escape remain secret.

Moving out of the light, she set her bags down and sat down for a moment. How had she gone from the top of the world to the bottom in such a short amout of time?

She had had everything going for her. She had a man who loved her. She was staying in a beautiful home. She had her own maid. She was being taken care of by people who would give her anything she wished. But still, something was not right.

She could hardly believe that just a few short hours ago, she'd been carefree as the wind, going into Raoul's room just to spend some time with him. Where had it all gone wrong?

Was it when they had kissed?

No, not then.

Was it when he told her that he loved her?

Not then either.

Was it when he told her he was leaving for England? That he couldn't share her heart with another man? That he was releasing her from their engagement?

Well, that's where it started.

She felt that she should be sobbing, that she should be torn up over this. And yet, she felt strangely emotionless. Raoul had said it was for the best. And she could not deny that fact. Nor could she deny that had they married, she never would have been completely his.

_Married._

Her heart suddenly began to ache. She ached for Raoul. She did love him. She was sorry she could never give him everything he wanted - or everything she wanted, for that matter. They had been engaged for over two years now, their wedding date getting pushed back again and again because of weak excuses conjured up at the last minute. Rumors were rampant...Raoul was having an affair...Christine was having an affair...it was a loveless relationship...she had heard them all, time and time again.

To her knowledge, the first rumor was false. She had never seen Raoul turn from her, nor give her any reason to suspect that he had. He was a good, upright man. And the third rumor - well, that was definitely false. Raoul doted on Christine, and Christine loved him in return. But sometime, somewhere along the line...that love had softened into a different kind of love - more like a deep caring for her childhood friend and lover. The fact that she didn't love him as he loved her scared her immensely - not scared enough to break off the engagement for fear of what others would say - but scared enough to know that marriage would be a mistake. But Christine never had the heart to tell Raoul of her concerns. Apparently, though, he had sensed them. Oh, how she loved and pitied him! Her heart died a little thinking of how she had hurt him.

But the second rumor...Christine's heart fluttered back to life.

No, she had not been secretly seeing another man. Not in the flesh, at least.

How many times had she remembered that fateful kiss...a kiss full of longing and sadness and desire? How many times had she made love to him in her dreams? How many times had she seen his face, unmasked...his anger when she had seen his deepest shame - his face - exposed for the first time...and the utter betrayal and despair that haunted his eyes on that final night in the depths of the opera house...

Christine shut her eyes tightly. Those images would stay with her forever...they had burned themselves into her mind.

She straightened and grasped her bags firmly, suddenly remembering her desire to leave that house and never come back. It was not when she had learned of Raoul's departure that she had decided to leave. No, upon hearing his words, her brain became clouded with so many thoughts and questions that she couldn't possibly think clearly. She moved around for the rest of the day lost in that fog...a fog that only cleared when she overheard Raoul's mother discussing her future with one of her various high-society friends.

"I just don't know what you should do about her," the friend was saying. "I would hate for you to throw her out, but what will people say if you keep her here? There's been enough gossip already, and now that he's broken the engagement...well, I know that will only add to it, but if you keep her...it would be much worse."

"Well, she always has the opera house to return to. They adored her so much two years ago, I'm sure they would be thrilled to have her back."

"Are you crazy? She hasn't sung at all since that final opera and the kidnapping. She hasn't even visited the opera house in almost a year. If she goes back, who knows if she'll be able to sing like she once could, and would they take her back? And what if that masked madman is still there, just waiting for her?" He voice lowered conspiratorially. "I've heard rumors of what he did to her down there."

She could hear no more. The words cut Christine like a knife and snapped her out of her fog. She was fuming. She would not be cast out like a doll a child has grown bored with. And she could not bear to hear the things they were going to say about Erik. She had heard those too. She did not care to think of them ever again.

Christine had gone through the rest of the day as normally as possible, but quietly packing her bags at every opportunity. She left all of the gifts she had received while under their care - she did not need them, and they would only serve as painful reminders.

And now, she found herself walking determinedly down the Paris streets at midnight, carrying a few small bags containing the clothes she owned before coming to live with the de Chagnys, some music, a photo of her father, and a few other small possessions.

She walked with sudden determination. Her destination was in sight.

She was headed straight for the Opera Populaire.


	2. Homecoming

It was as if she had never left.

The Opera Populaire was a beautiful place. Enormous columns dwarfed any who walked by. Golden statues stood guard proudly and gestured enticingly. Unlit candelabras lined the hallways while crystal chandeliers provided a breathtaking view for any who looked up. Had they been lit, the whole place would have had a golden glow unequaled by any place on earth.

But Christine hardly noticed. She was making her way to her old dressing room.

Although she tried to remain focused and reach her destination as quickly as she could, memories inevitably crept into her mind. Passing the ballet practice rooms, she remembered the endless hours of rehearsals under the strict but loving Madame Giry...all those times she and Meg would arrive late and get in trouble, only to find some way out of it...near Carlotta's dressing room, she remembered all too well the day the diva lost her voice, and the gruesome death of Buquet...

_Focus!_ she commanded herself.

She finally arrived at her former dressing room. As she reached for the handle, she stiffened. What if there was someone inside? She remembered those nights that she and Meg would sneak back to Christine's dressing room so they could talk and giggle in private...what if some of the other girls had the same idea?

Christine pressed her ear to the door, listening for giggling or whispering or any sign of a person being in the room. Hearing none, she cautiously opened the door.

It was almost exactly as she left it, she realized upon lighting a candle. It was slightly more bare. _Of course, without all the roses, it would be..._she thought to herself, remembering those times when she had returned to her dressing room after a successful performance to find a bouquet of roses tied with a black ribbon, sometimes accompanied by a note. A note from him. "He is pleased with you," Madame Giry would say, giving Christine a knowing smile. She would gather up the roses and drink in their scent. They smelled exactly like him. Their smell was a mixture of intoxicating sweetness and musty air that somehow, when combined, was glorious...Her heart fluttered. She had never smelled anything as wonderful as those roses...

Roses...Erik..._Erik!_ she thought, suddenly remembering why she was here. She set her bags down for a moment as she neared the massive mirror that adorned the back wall of the room.

He used to come to her through that mirror...she would hear that angelic voice and she was no longer in control of herself. At the memory, his voice seemed to echo throughout the room. His magnificent voice, powerful yet lulling, strange and beautiful...

Christine sighed in ecstacy. She was certain that not even an angel in Heaven could sing with the passion Erik could make her feel just by singing one note.

She slid her fingers down the side of the mirror until she found the hidden handle that would slide the mirror away and open the gateway to his world. She stood on sudden haste; her heart ached to see him again. Quickly, she pulled the mirror aside, grabbed her bags, and entered the deserted hallway. But she faltered slightly as she turned back to close the mirror behind her.

_What if he does not want to see me? What if he is not down there at all?_

She wasn't sure about the answer to the first question, but in her heart, she knew that he had nowhere else to go. He would be down there. She mustered her strength and began her journey.

Her bags were awkward and made it difficult to keep her candle steady. The flame flickered and threatened to go out. She bit her lip and looked down at her belongings. She would have to leave them behind. It was always possible to come back and get them, whether she had been invited to stay, or...

She placed her bags on the floor and continued on, praying that her candle would see her through this labyrinth.

The steps were uneven - she would have to watch her steps carefully. It was odd to see the passageway as it really was: run-down, and very, very dark.

The last time she had come this way, she hadn't been in control of her senses. He had taken her, in the middle of the night, coaxing her to sing for him, and in his own way, to love him. He taught and nurtured her. In turn, he sang for her, a beautifully tragic hymn of devotion and pain, one that he had no doubt composed himself. The angels had wept. And then, apart from the dressing-room singing lessons, she had not seen him for a long time - not until the last time she had come down to his home, a home that seemed more of a tomb than an artistic domain on that night.

And then he was gone. Or, more accurately, she was gone. She remained at the Opera for only a few days afterward, and then she politely announced her resignation from the Opera Populaire, and that was that. She went to live with the de Chagnys, and visited the Opera only to see Meg dance from time to time. But even that stopped once Meg, too, left the Opera house to marry and start a family.

Tearing herself away from her thoughts, she found herself on the edge of the lake. She had hoped she would find the boat resting on its usual place on the shore, and she was not disappointed. She gingerly stepped inside, steadying herself as the boat tipped precariously, and picked up an oar. It struck her as odd that the place was so entirely dark. She was forced to rely on the pitiful little candle in her hand to light her way. Rowing was difficult with one hand already full, but she pushed on until she saw an unlit candelabra out of the corner of her eye. She remembered the candles that had filled the caverns and realized that if she lit some of them, eventually she would not need the candle.

Once the candelabra was lit, she had a better view of things. Her sight was still limited, but she could now make out more shapes. A glint of gold caught her eye - several candelabras were lying askew on the floor, their candles long since extinguished. Fear began to gnaw at her heart.

She rowed on with more desperation, lighting what unharmed candelabras she could find, and finding more broken ones and stray candles. Her mind began to race. _Why is the place in such disarray? Where is Erik?_

Christine suddenly shivered. She was starting to feel so alone, so...cold...

Her thoughts had occupied her so completely that she had not noticed the water beginning to flood the boat.

The icy blackness was seeping faster and faster into the boat and started to soak the bottom of Christine's skirt. The sensation jolted her from her thoughts, and she gave a little scream. She thrashed around wildly, looking for the source of this unwelcome intrusion. Suddenly, she discovered it.

Her blood ran cold.

_Bullet holes._

She hadn't really looked carefully before getting into the boat. But now, upon further examination, there was no denying what they were. And there was no denying the reddish-brown substance that stained around the holes...she felt slightly ill.

She flailed around, looking for something, _anything_ that could stop the flow of water. Her eyes fell on something that she had not noticed before in the corner of the boat. She pulled it from the bottom. It was slightly stuck - she had to pull a little for it to give way. Whatever it was, it was covered in a lot of old blood. Bringing it into the light, a wave of recognition swept over her.

Her stomach lurched.

She was holding what had once been a beautifully crafted piece of white leather. The shape and eyeholes confirmed that it had once covered a man's face. It had once been beautiful to see and touch. But now, it was stained a sticky deep brown. Christine could see where the bullet had torn through it, blowing the other half away.

It was Erik's mask.


	3. What Have I Done?

**A/N: I'm so sorry for the terrible lack of updates! I was gone to Spain for ten days, and now I'm back. While I was gone, I did a lot of thinking and developing of the story, including one later chapter I can't _wait_ to write...anyway...on to chapter three!**

She held it for a moment, gazing in disbelief at the scrap of stained leather before it dropped from her trembling hands.

_Erik's mask._

_Erik is dead._

_Dead._

How could he have survived such a blow? The bullet hole went straight through the mask, and Erik was never without his mask.

She cried out in pain as she imagined his final moments. The men had been without mercy, she was sure...she did not know how many men came down for their vengeance, but he had certainly been grossly outnumbered. She pictured him after she had left in the boat and the angry crowd had taken over his fate...he was on his knees, not to beg for his life, but rather in defeated submission. They had him surrounded and were ready to break this already broken man, this man already abandoned and humiliated. Abandoned and humiliated by _her_ - Christine. She had gone off with Raoul, her mind so numb she was hardly even thinking about the mob that was already descending into the lair. She had probably been whisked off in a nice, comfortable carriage as they...as they killed him. Perhaps his body lay beneath the icy depths even now. It was no wonder she had felt that she heard his voice echo through the walls, for that's all he was now - an echo, a mere shade.

_What had she done?_

The colors and lights around her began to swim in front of her eyes. She covered her face with her hands and began to sob openly, her candle hissing as it fell from her fingers and was extinguished by the water lapping at her dress. There was no denying it. Not only was Erik dead, but she, Christine, had caused it. She had left him alone in his darkest hour, leaving him prey to an angry and rambunctious group eager to see him dead. She had delivered him straight into the hands of fate. She had killed him.

Picking up the mask once more, her stomach began to twist into knots. She felt slightly dizzy. A sour liquid was rising in her throat and she gave in, vomiting over the side of the boat. She turned away, feeling even worse than she had before.

An icy sensation began creeping up her legs, and she was suddenly very aware of how much the water was rising around her. Panic seized her. She needed to get out of there - fast. The edge of the lake by Erik's posessions was much closer, but she knew she could not handle seeing his beautiful lair trashed and burned and achingly empty. Turning around and rowing all the way to the far shore from where she had come was her only option.

Shivering and with her eyes blurred with tears, she began to row furiously toward shore. She did not look at the walls. She did not look at the mask. She stood on sudden haste to leave the Opera Populaire and never return, for every future visit would be marred by the death of the angel she had adored and murdered.

She was fighting a losing battle. The water seemed to rise faster and faster. Her skirt was now nearly completely soaked, and the water was inching threateningly closer to the bodice of her dress...

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something floating away...

Erik's mask!

Without thinking, she grasped it and tucked it into the top of her dress, and frantically resumed her rowing.

Now that the candle which had guided her thus far was lost forever to the lake, she was glad for the candelabras that lit her way, however dimly. She peered down the passageway - still a long way to go. Anxiously, she picked up the pace, but even as she did, she knew she could only row for so much longer before she would have to swim. She tried to put the thought out of her mind, but it lingered. By now she was shivering uncontrollably and her flesh was covered with goosebumps. The water was creeping up her dress at an alarming rate...

And the boat became completely submerged.

Christine allowed herself to be pulled into the water. It cut like knives at her exposed skin and her arms quickly grew numb. She dared to look down the passageway again. It drifted in and out of focus. It would be a long swim...and a long walk afterwards.

Trying to keep her head above water, she rose a hand to her breast, tucked the mask in a little deeper, and began the long journey to shore.

Within minutes, she could not feel her body, and the feeble waves she produced were the only thing that let her know she was still moving forward. She fought to stay focused and alert, but it was difficult with the water clogging her nose, mouth, eyes, and senses...she prayed she was still moving in the right direction. Her dress weighed her down considerably, but there was no way she could remove it now. She pushed on, dizzy and disoriented.

At long last, she felt solid ground beneath the water. She collapsed on the shore, shivering and grateful. Her body was wracked with shivers and her teeth were chattering violently. She coughed and coughed, desperately trying to rid her body of the enormous amounts of water she had inadvertently consumed during the swim. Her breathing was hard and irregular as she lay there, her energy spent. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust and notice that she was in almost total darkness. During the last part of the journey especially, she had not been looking where she was going, and had no idea that she had long ago passed the last of the candelabras she had lit on the way down.

As the feeling gradually returned to her arms and legs, she gingerly pulled herself into an upright position. The glow of light was very, very faint. There was no way she had the strength to be able to swim all the way back to the candelabra and swim back with a candle - a lit candle, no less. She would have to ascend blindly.

Saying a silent prayer, she tested the strength of her legs - not much, but she had no other choice - and began to feel for the walls, stumbling around, fumbling for the right path, trying desperately to recognize the way she had come before. Her ankles twisted at odd angles on the uneven floors, and she was suddenly reminded of a similar run she had made just a few short hours ago when she had fled the de Chagnys. How much had happened since then...

She set her face determinedly and put all thoughts, except thoughts of escaping this sanctuary turned hell, out of her mind.

When she at last arrived at the mirror, she paused for only a quick moment to catch her breath, and then slid the mirror open and continued her walk as fast as she could. She did not look around when she reached the dressing room, nor the hallway, nor the entranceway. She did not take care to be quiet. She had no time to linger.

Finally, she was taking in the free air of Paris in gulps. She shut the enormous ornate doors of the Opera Populaire behind her for the last time. And yet, she felt nothing - not relief, not joy, not regret - nothing. She merely ran down the stairs as fast as her small legs would allow.

And she continued running. She ran throughout the streets of Paris, not stopping, not thinking, not feeling anything, only pumping her legs in a desperate attempt to escape. It wasn't until she was on the outskirts of town that she finally realized she could push on no more. Unbearable pain shot through her legs and chest and head. Her emotions took over and she collapsed against a huge brick building, sobbing and shivering and breathing raggedly.

And it wasn't until then that she realized she had left all of her wordly posessions in a few suitcases that were sitting in a damp, dark passageway beneath the opera house.

She had nothing. She was nobody. She had absolutely nowhere to go. All of her family was dead, and she would rather die than go back to the de Chagnys and face Raoul's mother and her friends. The opera would not take her back. She had turned her back on them long ago, and they had no need of her.

Christine curled up into a tiny ball, her body shaking with fresh sobs.

"I am n-nothing...I am nobody..."

Earlier she had thought she had hit rock bottom; evidently, she had been wrong.

"I ha-have nowhere to g-go..."

Suddenly, she was aware of a strange object in her bodice she had forgotten she had put there. A piece of leather...the memory struck her like a bolt of lightning. She cried aloud.

"Erik, I'm so sorry! Forgive me! I am a monster! What have I done...what have I done?"

Her strength began to ebb. She spoke in barely a whisper.

"Forgive me..."

That was the last thing she remembered before she slowly, mercifully, began the descent into a darkness where the nightmare of her past did not plague her.

ooo

Adrien Lefebvre was in a very good mood. He hummed as he exited the door to begin his morning walk. Beautiful spring days such as these always put him in a good mood. And besides, business was good. The bookstore he worked at on the outskirts of Paris was enjoying great success at the moment. Lefebvre's Books was home for Adrien. The shop was actually a large house - his family's house for generations, and they still lived on the upper floors - that had had the main floor converted into a cozy bookstore and library years ago, when his grandfather decided to start a business as a young man. Edouard Lefevre still ran the bookstore as well as he was able - the inevitable passage of time was beginning to take its toll - and enlisted the help of his grandson, Adrien, and a friend that he had met a few years back, Olivier Guerin. And, truth be told, Grandfather had been showing some favoritism to Olivier, and it was beginning to annoy Adrien - but today was a new day, and he was not going to let it get off to a bad start.

He was feeling quite good as he reached the corner of the large brick building he called home. He paused for a moment. Go straight...or turn left? A man of routine, Adrien was not one to change anything on the spur of the moment, especially not in his precious and strictly kept routine. But, since he was feeling particularly good today, he decided to go left instead of the usual straight.

He was walking down the small side street, admiring what a lovely day it was, when something caught his eye. He glanced over. Just a lump of fabric, he thought. But as he turned to continue his walk, he saw something else - a hand...and another. And there was a shoe sticking out - and a face...

Adrien rushed over. "What in the..." He stopped as he drew closer. It was a young woman, no older than twenty. Her chestnut curls were limp. Her clothes were damp and clung to her body. She looked positively ill.

"Mademoiselle?" he said quietly, gently shaking her. "Mademoiselle, are you all right?"

Her eyelids fluttered for a moment, then widened in surprise. She sat up slightly and her blue eyes stared into his. She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, she fainted onto the cobblestone walkway.

Adrien gasped. His heart was pounding, but he regained his calm once he realized she had only fainted. He spoke to her softly, though he knew she could not hear.

"Come on, mademoiselle. I'll carry you inside."


	4. Don't Sleep to Dream

Erik's body was completely numb.

His face was still damp from his tears mixed with hers, his skin still flushed from her touch. The hope that had risen in his breast at the sight of her was now the heavy weight of a stark reality.

She had been so real, so warm, and for a moment - just a moment - he really believed that she could be his. But now, here he was - broken, on his knees, in the cold lair once familiar and comforting that now seemed a torture chamber built exclusively for his agony. Each heartbeat, each breath seemed nothing more than one number less on the countdown until his life would end - a merciful end, he now felt, which couldn't come soon enough.

He raised his head slowly, as if it were a great weight on his shoulders, and stared down the empty passageway. All in a rush, colors began to run together and swim before his eyes, and he realized that no matter how hard he tried, he could not stop the emotion from taking over. Why could he not stop himself from crying? Why did he allow her to have such a hold over him? And why had she left him? _Why?_

He balled his fists. This was the passageway through which she had gone...left him alone to a life of misery, a life of anguish. The light from the candelabras that lined the halls flickered gaily, smiling at him and mocking his pain.

Suddenly, the stillness was broken as several candelabras were knocked to the floor. Before he knew what he was doing, Erik had risen to his feet and crashed the candelabras to the floor in his anger. He was breathing heavily. His gaze moved wildly from one thing to another around his lair...he needed something - anything - to hurt, to break, to destroy...

All at once, he was on his knees again, completely undone. Without her, his life was over. He had nothing to live for. Even music had lost most of its splendor - music, which had been his one companion, the one thing he could always count on...

His gaze fell on something metallic resting on the edge of a table. Tears moved aside as his eyesight began to clear...he moved closer.

A gun.

Funny, he thought, I don't remember putting that there. How strange. How...

Convenient.

He reached out for the gun. It was cold to the touch, but the cold had never felt so inviting. He turned it over in his hands, admiring the craftsmanship. It was beautiful work. The gun was heavy, but in his life-weary hands, it felt unnaturally light.

_No one will miss me_, he thought. _All I have to do is pull the trigger..._

Slowly but determinedly, he readied the gun and placed it right in front of his face. Right in the middle of his mask.

In a few seconds, his life would be over. No more hiding. No more loneliness. No more hatred...and, worse than hatred, false love...

"Erik!"

The voice jerked him from his reverie. A figure clad in white was making her way towards him. He had to blink a few times before he could be sure who it really was. Something exploded in the pit of his stomach.

_Christine._

He dropped the gun to the floor.

She ran towards him with open arms, and when she reached him at last, she kissed him for all she was worth. Erik was rendered completely helpless as she parted his lips with her tongue and kissed him fervently, deeper and deeper. He ran his fingers through her beautiful, soft curls, hardly daring to believe it could be real. Tentatively, he slid his tongue into her mouth, and to say he was pleased with the result would be an understatement. Christine moaned softly. The kiss grew deeper - more passionate, more yearning. Erik had never tasted anything as beautiful as this kiss...

But as soon as it began, it was over. Christine tore herself away from him violently and shoved him down to the ground. She picked the gun up from the floor beside him and sat squarely on his hips.

"You dropped this," she said coldly.

"Christine, what are you--"

But she never gave him the chance to finish the sentence. As he was speaking, she aimed the gun, right between his eyes, and pulled the trigger...

Christine awoke screaming. She was drenched in her own cold sweat and hot tears. As she looked down, she half expected to find fresh blood soaking her skirts, a gun in her hand, and Erik's battered body beneath her. Of course, she saw no such thing. But she shivered in spite of herself. The dream had been so real...but why had she kissed Erik passionately one moment, and the next, taken his life in cold blood?

And yet, in her heart, she knew that she had done the same thing that night after _Don Juan. _She choked back a cry.

Her breathing slowly returned to normal and her sobs subsided, but the image of Erik helpless on the ground with that pleading look in his eyes would haunt her forever. She had seen that look before.

It took her a moment to notice her surroundings. She was in a bed - a nice bed, large and comfortable, with a canopy. All around the room were shelves packed from top to bottom with books of various sizes and genres. There was a fireplace on one end, some furniture...a lovely, cozy room to be sure, but it was very different from her room at the de Chagny's.

Her screaming recommenced when she looked to the left side of her bed to find a little old man perched on a stool, watching her. His face held an amused expression behind little round spectacles. His eyes twinkled.

"Well, Mademoiselle, what you have lacked in energy these past few days you have certainly made up for with lung power just now!" He laughed, a very hearty laugh from so small a man. He turned to the door. "Adrien, come in, our guest is awake!"

At that moment, a tall, thin man entered the room. His dark hair was very neatly parted and combed, his moustache perfectly trimmed, and he gazed at Christine behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. Everything about him was neat and tucked in. He smiled at Christine with kind eyes and a nice smile.

"We are very pleased you have awoken at last, Mademoiselle, and if that scream you gave a moment ago is any indication - you're doing much better now than when you arrived here three days ago. Allow me to introduce myself - my name is Adrien Lefebvre, and this is my grandfather, Edouard. Welcome to our home."

"Adrien and I run the family bookstore, Lefebvre's Books, on the main floor," Edouard added.

Edouard continued chattering on about the bookstore and the house, and although she heard his voice, but her clouded mind was having difficulty absorbing all this. _Three days...? Who are these men? Where am I?_

Adrien must have noticed Christine's confused expression, for he put a hand on his grandfather's shoulder and gave him a pointed look. Christine had to smile. She didn't know much about what had happened over the past few days, but she did know that she liked these two men already.

"That's enough about the bookstore, Grandfather. Our Mademoiselle must be very tired." He turned to Christine. "I was out for my morning walk a few days ago and found you lying in the street, looking quite ill. You woke up for a moment, and then you passed out shortly after seeing me. I say," he added, with a twinkle in his eye just like his grandfather's, "I hope I wasn't the cause of your fainting spell."

At that, Christine managed a small laugh. "No, I assure you, Monsieur, it was not you that startled me. I have just been...ill," she finished somewhat lamely.

"Of course you have! And that is what we have been trying to fix for the past three days...but I don't suppose you remember it?" Edouard asked.

She shook her head.

"Well, at any rate, it appears we have made our breakthrough today. Rest as long as you need to, Mademoiselle..." He looked at her expectantly, waiting for her to fill in her name.

_Everyone in Paris knows my name, _she thought. _If I tell them my real name, they will no doubt recognize me as the kidnapped singer and fiancee of the Vicomte de Chagny...I will have to think of a false name._

"Christine..." she began, cursing her tongue as her first name tumbled out before she could stop it, "...Rousseau. Christine Rousseau," she repeated, as if doing so would wipe away any doubt of this being the name she was born with.

"Rousseau," Edouard affirmed. "Well, now that you're awake and functioning, Mademoiselle Rousseau, you can tell us where you live, if you like, and we'll take you home as soon as you're ready."

Her stomach dropped.

_Home._

_She had nowhere to go..._

"Uh - yes. H-home..." She bit her lip, trying to stop it from the desperate trembling she knew would give her away. Maybe she didn't want to live on the streets, but she did not want pity or handouts, either. But her attempt was feeble - as she turned away, it did not take a genius to realize that something was wrong.

Adrien rushed to her side. "Mademoiselle Rousseau? Are you all right? What's wrong?"

Christine was trapped. She had to give an answer, but her mind was incapable of coming up with a full, decent, and completely untrue tale - and pride prevented her from telling the whole truth.

"I - I have no home to go to." Each word pained her. "My parents - both of them are long dead."

This much was true.

"And my home, " she continued, "my home has burned down. I lost everything."

Not only had she come up with a story, but it was all true; she was an orphan, and her home - the Opera Populaire - _had_ burned down. And with the Opera Populaire had died a large part of her life - all of those endless hours singing and dancing and rehearsing and giggling with Meg...several of her wordly posessions...and of course...her Angel of Music. She was only lying in leaving out some of the more important details (the Opera, although parts had burned down, had been repaired and had continued with its lavish productions). She felt a lump rise in her throat.

Adrien put a comforting arm around her shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Mademoiselle. A girl your age should never have to see so much sorrow." She could tell that he meant these words, and she was grateful.

"I'm terribly sorry if I've been a burden these past few days." Christine apologized, starting to climb out of the bed. "Just - just let me gather my - my things - and I'll be on my way --"

"I say, Adrien," Edouard interrupted from his stool on the other side of the bed, his eyes alight with that familiar twinkle, "Have you noticed that it has been getting rather difficult to run the bookstore with only you, Monsieur Guerin, and me? I think we may need another helping hand."

Adrien smiled. "Yes, Grandfather - I think it's an excellent idea. Mademoiselle, would you be interested --" He turned to Christine, and found that her face had quite changed. She had given way to the emotion building up inside of her. Tears had spilled out of her eyes and were trailing down her cheeks.

Her mind was spinning. A job? Money? That would mean a place to live...and it wouldn't be a handout, she would be earning her keep and in the meantime keeping herself busy...

Who were these two men, who would take a complete stranger into their home, watch over her while she was ill, and offer them a place in their home?

She did not know - but she was eternally grateful.

"I would love to," she choked out.


End file.
